


Kindred Witches

by StimmyMage



Series: Anne of Hogwarts [1]
Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anne would be perfect at Hogwarts, Gen, and she deserves love, imagine the schemes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21547825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StimmyMage/pseuds/StimmyMage
Summary: Anne Shirley was orphaned at 3 months old and adopted out. She didn't know her parents were a witch and wizard. She spent her entire life in orphanages, occasionally taken in by poor families looking for free labor and childcare. She's full of imagination, which leads to frequent mistakes or forgetting in addition to the childhood magic she can't control. Her life changes forever when she gets a letter of acceptance from Hogwarts and runs away to attend.
Series: Anne of Hogwarts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1552858
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. Her Secret World

**Author's Note:**

> This au is set in 1906. Anne of Green Gables was published in 1908, so it makes sense with her timeline. McGonagall's birthday seems to be debated, but for my story purposes she was born in 1889.

The day the letter arrived was wet. It had rained the day before, and the air had settled into a hot mugginess. Anne Shirley, eleven years old with bright red hair in two neat braids and a faded blue dress, was imagining a world that had nothing to do with muddy streets and screaming children. She was sitting just inside the door of the shabby house, staring at herself in the dusty glass of an empty cupboard. 

In her mind, she made her sad, warped reflection into a friend named Beatrice. Beatrice seemed like the kind of name a real young lady would have, and they had such fun at tea parties and walking in the vast gardens of their estate. 

She paused long enough to glance at the swaddled infant resting in the corner and count the four children under six who were wading in the street, and then went back to asking Beatrice what gloriously tragic play they were seeing that night. Anne didn’t actually know of any plays—she liked to read but could rarely find any real books—so she was mid-way through making one up, in which a beautiful maiden was so in love she could hardly bear to live without him, when a voice startled her. 

“Morning, Miss Anne!” 

Anne looked up and smiled at the mail carrier. “Hi, Tom!” 

“And how’re the kids?” Tom was old and poor and single, balding with his only pair of pants an unrecognizable brown from the weather. He wasn’t good at sarcasm—his voice sounded grave when he meant to tease her. But she’d greeted him every day for eight months now, and she felt she was beginning to understand his character. 

“Ah, you know how it is,” she gave him an exaggeratedly casual shrug, “they’ll all need a bath tonight—Penny, stay on this side of the house!—but they’re kinda cute anyway. Of course, it would be so much more interesting if I was watching them because I was secretly an orphaned lady named Priscilla but my evil aunt told everyone I wasn’t really and sent me away into poverty. But in ten years little Penny, who I taught to read and took care of her whole life, read an old story about me and realized it could only be her nurse, and she helped me reunite with my home and my dear horse named Jennifer.” 

“Mm,” Tom didn’t usually understand the things Anne said, but he liked her, and he admired her constant smile. “I got a surprise for you today, Miss Anne.” 

“Oh, is it an invitation to a party? Mrs. Williams says they don’t get invitations, but when I lived with Mr. And Mrs. Groves, they sometimes did. They didn’t take me, but I’m a little older now—” 

Tom laughed, “Are you going to let me finish, child?” 

“Yes, sorry!” Anne clapped both hands dramatically over her mouth. 

“I have a letter, addressed to you.” He held out a thick parchment envelope and Anne took it reverently, disbelievingly. Tom turned before she could open it to finish his route. “And Anne, if I were you, I wouldn’t show your foster mother that you got something.” Anne never talked about her badly, but everyone new that Mrs. Nancy Williams was nasty to her husband, her children, and her neighbors. 

In brilliant green ink, it was addressed to: 

Ms. Anne Shirley  
The Kitchen  
226 King Ct.  
London 

Anne carefully peeled up the corner of the envelope so it didn’t rip, relishing the moment. She’d almost gotten it open when the baby, little James, shrieked. She tucked the envelope into her pocket and tried to forget about it as she fed the baby and then called the others in for dinner and baths. By the time Mrs. Williams, who was a laundress, returned tired and grumpy, all her children were asleep and Anne was eating her own bowl of cold soup at the table. 

“Anne!” Her sudden bark made the girl jump. “Why is the kettle still on? There can’t still be water in—shit, girl, you’ve burned it!” 

Anne scrambled to her feet, her food forgotten. “Oh, Mrs. Williams, I am so sorry. I made tea for the children this afternoon and then James was hungry—” 

“Tell me, with what money am I to get a new one? Hire you out as a maid, that’s what. Think you work much now? Just you’ll see! Scrub the stove before you sleep tonight!” She stomped off without stopping for food. 

Tears burning her eyes, Anne knelt to put out the fire so she could scrub the black grime. She didn’t finish her dinner. By the time she finished, it was very late and she was very dirty. In her misery, unable to see through her watery eyes, she didn’t notice Still humming her newest song (“Poor little Priscilla, cast to the filthy floor...”), she slipped out the front door and curled herself into a corner of the dilapidated porch. The sky wasn’t visible through the heavy yellow fog, but the fog itself seemed to glow and gave her enough light to finally read her letter. It said: 

Dear Ms. Shirley,  
We are proud to announce your acceptance to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of necessary books and supplies, and be at King’s Cross Station, Platform 9 ¾ at 11 o’clock the morning of September the 1st.  
Sincerely,  
Headmaster Dippet 

She read it five times. It never occurred to her that it wasn’t real, that kindly Tom might have written her something to give her hope. She knew her imaginings weren’t real, but she also knew that sometimes strange things happened to her. She’d finally been sent away by the Groves when she couldn’t explain the bed of flowers that had sprouted in her sad corner. She was...a witch, then? An odd feeling tugged her stomach. She liked stories, and she knew that witches were ugly old women who were mean to little girls, not beautiful young women who died of love. 

Still, the alternative was to stay here until Mrs. Williams tired of her forgetfulness and sent her back to the crowded orphanage. She was so tired of taking care of children. And she’d never been to any kind of school before. She’d learned to read from older kids at the orphanage, and a kind older son of one of her foster families had shown her a little math, but that was all. 

It took her less than an hour to decide. She didn’t know exactly what today was, but she was pretty sure it was August. She knew King’s Cross was a train station in London, but she didn’t know where it was. None of that mattered. For the first time in her life, she had a way out. 

The next day, she asked Tom the date. It was August the 8th. She had almost a month left. She spent a restless week, more forgetful than ever, planning. She owned one little carpet bag of things—two faded books, a cloth doll, two spare dresses. She had nothing else to pack. But finally, on August 15th, she chose something for herself. She waited until Mrs. Williams got home, late at night, so the children wouldn’t be alone. She tiptoed into their room and kissed each of them on their little foreheads, and crept into the night down the dark street, determined to find her way to the train.


	2. The Trials of the Orphaned Countess Priscilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne finds her way across London to King's Cross, only to discover platform 9 3/4 doesn't seem to exist.

It wasn’t the first time Anne had slept out on the street, but it was the first time she had done so without a yelling and beating beforehand. She didn’t know where she was going, and found herself wandering past grand theaters and dark corners where women in bright dresses smoked smelly cigarettes. They were very nice and thought she was charming, but didn’t know where the station was any more than she did. Maybe she should have asked Tom, but she wasn’t sure he’d have let her leave on her own. And so she wandered and met new people who chuckled at her jokes or snapped at her to leave. For a long eleven days, she survived on market scraps or leftovers that kindly sellers gave her. She slept in the mud and never changed her dress, hoping to keep the spares nice. Finally, on August the 26th, she asked a cab driver in a shabby but not too dark section of town where King’s Cross was, and he told her. But when she brightly thanked him and started to run off, he called her back. 

“Girl, what do you think you’re doing? It’s a two-day walk from here.” 

“That’s alright, sir. I like to walk.” 

He looked the scrawny child up and down, taking in her mud-stiffened dress, bare feet, and wild hair. “How old are you?” 

“I am eleven and a half,” she announced proudly in her best grown-up voice, standing as straight as she could. 

“Yeah, I got a daughter almost your age. Here, get in, I’ll drive you.” 

Anne’s cheeks turned pink. “Sir, I’m afraid I don’t have any money. I could tell you a lovely story, but as I’ve heard before, tales don’t buy dinner.” 

He just waved a hand. “Ah, business is good, dinner ain’t my problem. It’s been a long while though since I’ve heard a story as I didn’t know before. Come on, hop up here.” 

She didn’t wait to be told again and scrambled into the cab, tossing her bag at her feet. It was a two-hour ride across the city in traffic, and she had plenty of time to regale him with one of her favorite stories, which she had made up. He didn’t seem the type for tragic romance, so instead she went with her story of a girl who becomes a pirate and sails around plundering until she falls in love with a pure and kind prince, only he was betrothed to a wicked women who cared only for power. And so the pirate sailed to her love’s castle, but when they were interrupted by his betrothed she drew her sword and— 

“And that’s actually as far as I got,” Anne admitted, taking what seemed like her first breath since she’d began. 

“That’s alright,” the driver had really only accepted the offer because he felt bad for the poor thing having to walk so far, and he would have rather sold his horse and cab than admit that he wanted to know the end. “We’re almost there anyways. But you promise me now, you ever pass by here again I expect to hear the end.” 

“I promise! Thank you again!” 

She was already running into the large station, bag bouncing on her back. 

“Hey, wait! You got no money, how you expect to get a train?” But the bright shabby girl was gone, leaving behind only a fascinating tale for a poor cab driver to tell his sons over dinner. 

Inside the station, people bustled around her and it was all Anne could do to keep her footing, much less look around for her train. The platforms were wide, with the ceiling high above, and it was almost like being outside, really. Certainly nothing like being in a dilapidated house turned orphanage. But as she watched a girl about her age comfort her baby sister, and heard children crying for their mother behind her, and a man in a nice jacket rushing by knocked her sideways into the wall, all she could smell were wall mold and unwashed children, and old taunts filled her ears. Caught off guard, she fell in a heap against the bricks. It had been a long time since she wasn’t too busy working or daydreaming for the memories to rush back. She didn’t believe in dwelling on the bad parts of life, of which there were many, but it was hard sometimes when you were too fanciful and forgetful and useless for even other orphans to like you. 

She took the now-dirty envelope out of her pocket and reached inside for the ticket. She’d only taken it out once before to read it, terrified she would lose it in the street somewhere, so it was still a shiny gold and read, clear as day, “Platform 9 ¾, King’s Cross Station, London. 11 o’clock in the morning on September the 1st, 1906.” September the 1st was still almost a week away, and she suddenly felt the exhausted relief of one who was afraid she might not make it in time. She had only intended to find her platform today before going back out into the streets to bide her time, but she realized now that most of the people had gone and it was evening, later than she’d thought. The painted wood sign on the wall above her head informed her that she was sitting on platform 2. 

She stood up to find the right one, but before she’d gone three steps an official-looking man marched up to her and demanded, “What are you doing here? Here to cause trouble, are you?” 

“Um. Sir, I wouldn’t dream of causing trouble. I’m just looking for my train.” 

“Mm. There are no more trains tonight, so I find that unlikely.” 

He never actually told her to leave, but his brow furrowed and his beady eyes glared and she decided it was prudent to do so. Outside, the light was quickly fading and it had grown chilly despite the earlier summer heat. Looking around, though, Anne felt herself smile. Several feet from the entrance sat a sturdy old tree, which almost miraculously still held several apples. It looked to her like a kindly grandfather, the kind she’d always wanted, with a stooped back and crooked smile and twinkling eye. It wasn’t hard to climb, even while swinging a carpetbag ahead of her, and she spent the night among the tallest branches. 

Anne had always thought it would be wonderful to sleep outside in a tree. She was at first a little disappointed—the bark scratched her through her thin dress, the mist was cold and wet, and she nearly fell twice while trying to hang onto her bag—but by midnight she had decided it was simply yet another trial the Countess Priscilla had to endure in order to be reunited with Jennifer and her beautiful estate and all her lovely dresses and the high society girls who would be scandalized but secretly enjoy her tales of woe... 

She didn’t leave the tree all that week. She climbed up and down to eat apples, and passed the time with watching people pass near her and imagining their lives. They never looked up to see her. The only two books she owned were both novels—she had stolen _Pride and Prejudice_ from the orphanage matron’s private office when she knew she was about to be adopted out the last time, and the same older boy who had taught her a little math had given her his copy of _The War of the Worlds_ when he was done with it. There wasn’t much romance in that one, but books were precious and she would never get rid of one just because it wasn’t perfect. She had read them both already at least four times, but she spent her last day in London reading _Pride and Prejudice_ again. 

She didn’t try to go back into the station until dawn on September the 1st. She had decided it would be safer to avoid the crush of people, and she was clever enough to not need a whole day to find one platform. She didn’t know it, but this was a Saturday and even more people would be traveling to the country to see their families and churches before another long week of work in the city. All she knew was that it was still too early to be very crowded. 

Her bag now bulging with all the apples she hadn’t eaten yet, she slipped back into the station. She hid in a dark corner to change her dress into a plain and wrinkled but clean brown one. She did think about leaving the old one there, but she only had three and couldn’t bear to leave one behind. They were almost like friends. She shook the dirt out as best she could but still grunted a bit as she forced the stiff fabric into a ball in her bag. She unbraided and rebraided her hair, though bits still stuck out everywhere, and wiped her dirty face on the third dress. She couldn’t see herself to know she’d only smeared it. Still, she knew she was still dirty and barefoot and ugly. But she would do her best to look presentable for her teachers. Maybe they wouldn’t send her right back. She hoped that her red hair and dirty face weren’t enough to make them reconsider. 

The same uniformed man was pacing back and forth in front of the not-yet-moving trains, but she skirted around him and counted the platforms as she passed them. Platform 3, platform 4, platform 5. This was only the second train she’d seen, big and black and shiny and still quiet. She couldn’t wait to ride one. Platform 6, platform 7, platform 8. She was running now. She’d never have to look after small dirty children again, she was sure a school of any sort would have books. She wondered plenty about the magic part of it, but in her mind it all came back to books. Platform 9...platform 10. 

Anne froze. She dug out her ticket again, even though she knew it and the letter by heart. Maybe she’d gotten it wrong (flighty, forgetful child...) and it was just platform 9? But no, it definitely read 9 ¾. She ran up and down the platforms four more times. It was after 9 o’clock now, and the station was filling up with families and businessmen. Anne started to panic. 

With a deep breath, she approached a different uniformed man. “Excuse me, sir.” She put on her best sweet-little-girl voice. “My mother said I was to go out to the country today to see my cousins and breathe the sweet fresh air. Only I’ve gotten a little lost. Could you point me to platform 9 ¾?” 

The man laughed for a solid minute. You think you’re funny, kid?” 

Her heart started to sink. “No, sir. I’m not funny at all. I’m the most serious girl you ever did see. It might have been platform 9, I suppose. Could you please tell me where the 11 o’clock train is going?” 

His eyes narrowed in a dangerous way Anne recognized. She didn’t wait for him to yell or grab her before turning and running away, towards platforms 9 and 10. His heavy boots thudded on the stones behind her, but she slipped between a large family and slumped against the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. Tears stung her eyes. It was one thing to spend a week in a tree, but she was pretty sure being alone on the street would be worse than caring for Mrs. William’s children. 

And then, suddenly, she was falling backwards as though the bricks behind her had vanished. 


End file.
